Batter's Up! Baseball as a Metaphor for Life

My 15-year-old son Clay made the team this week. As a sophomore in high school, he has worked all school year going to conditioning after school and on Saturday, batting practice and such to secure a spot on his high school’s junior varsity baseball team. He has a decent chance to be a starter, the coach says, and he throws a mean enough ball that he is now being groomed as a pitcher.

How so very proud I am. Don’t tell him that because it might go to his head. He can be a smart-mouthed wise guy when he wants. But in reality I am a doting mother (okay, maybe not so doting) beaming with pride because of my oldest son’s accomplishment.

Clay, in his early baseball days,
around age 6 and well under the
6 feet, 2 inches that he is today.

So, lots of kids make the team. What’s so special about this? Plenty, considering the history of Clay’s early baseball days. Clay started playing very young – as about a 4-year-old in t-ball. He progressed to coach pitch and then machine pitch in the local Knothole league. And then the big time – kid pitch, when kids on the team actually got to start doing the pitching. Clay found himself on a new team during his first year of kid pitch, and then he continued with the team for a second year. It became “his” team. He wore his little team baseball cap everywhere he went. He was proud to be part of the team.

But then, the unthinkable occurred. Shortly after his second season with the team ended, I received a brief e-mail from the coach. The coach explained that Clay “had not improved as much as they (he and the other coaches) had hoped” so they had elected to release him back into the draft. In other words, they cut him from the team, I guess so they could replace him with another player that would be “better.”

Cut from a Knothole team? I had never heard of a kid being cut from a team in an instructional league before. And my baby was only 9 years old. Gee, the game got vicious fast. How was I going to tell my son that? It weighed on my mind all night. Then it occurred to me. I was not going to tell him. It wasn’t my decision, after all, so it wasn’t my job. It was the coach’s decision. The coach should tell him. I contacted the coach and asked him when he wanted to meet with my son to break him the news.

A couple of days later, I told Clay that his coach wanted to speak with him and that we had to go to his house for a few minutes. He wondered why, but I just evaded the “whys” and stressed the fact that his coach had something to say. As I was driving him to the coach’s house that day, I felt as if I was taking a lamb to the slaughter. So much heartache and guilt. But I was steadfast in my position that it was the coach that should tell him, not me. When we arrived, the coach broke the news that he had been cut from the team, Clay cried, I cried and we left. As we drove away, I cried all the way home. And an hour later, when Clay was more or less over it, I still cried because my baby had been treated that way. To this day when I think about it, I still feel the pain of seeing my 9-year-old rejected. I also remember how I assured him that while others may not have felt he was good enough, he was always a superstar in my eyes. (What’s a mother to say?)

I wondered whether as a result of being axed my son had soured to the game. Perhaps he was embarrassed about being cut and having to still see friends of his who were not cut. Did he ever want to go away and hide, maybe stick his head in the sand for a little while? Doubt it. I know at that point I could have been done with the game. “Don’t feel like you have to continue playing to make me and your dad happy,” I told him. “We love you no matter what. No pressures here.” Secretly, at the time I was hoping he would swear off the game, as I didn’t want him to risk getting hurt again. But he was adamant that he wanted to keep playing. He found himself on a new team the next year, and as the enabling mother who did not want him to fail, I made sure to buy him the obscenely expensive bat (for his birthday), the batting gloves (once he got his first hit) and any other things he needed to become a strong player and thus valuable member of the team. He spent three good years with his new team, gradually improving to become one of the best players on the team. Then when that team broke up he spent three years with another team that was not quite as strong, but one in which he was indeed one of the strongest players on the team. And now he plays high school baseball. I have no doubt that he has already set his sights on the varsity team for next year and that he will do the work it takes to make the team.

I do believe that the turning point in his baseball career came those six years ago, when he endured the pain of being cut from his Knothole team. That is when he had to make a decision – whether to quit the game altogether out of frustration, or whether to dedicate himself to becoming even better. His determination to play baseball to its fullest kicked in on that summer day six years ago, right after I had led him to the slaughter.

Having shared my son’s story, I’ll delve into what this post is all about – my own story. As I recall the pain and resentment I harbored toward the coaches for putting my son and my family through that, I concede that in many ways all of the happenings from those years ago in some ways symbolize my own life now as I too struggle with sense of loss and the excruciating deep-down guttural pain that I still feel all of these months after being cut from my own team. It was a team I had been with, in one way or another, for more than a decade. I thought I was a valuable member – I have all the little notes from the team managers that told me so. But one day, after all those years, I got called into the manager’s office, only to be told I wasn’t needed anymore. My take on it was that while I was a good utility player, what they really wanted was a home run slugger. Other than that, no real reasons, or at least none that were shared. What were the reasons behind the decision, I wondered? Not enough hits at the plate? A couple of ground balls missed? Maybe a fly ball lost in the sun. Too much time on the disabled list? Or how about being so swamped and stressed out about getting the runs batted in -- any way, any how -- that my game plan relied too much on tactics rather than strategy? That may be a fair call, but purely my speculation. Nevertheless, you can drive yourself crazy constantly analyzing the possible reasons behind such a decision, or figuratively "pull your hair out" trying to make sense of it all.

So after more than 10 years playing for the same team, all of a sudden one day I’m told I’m finished. I’m out the door within minutes. I’ve vanished into the air, as if I never existed at all.

I sure loved that team. It was my identity. It gave me purpose (not to mention a paycheck). Now, many months later, I still struggle with questions such as “who am I?” and “why am I here?” And most of all “am I meant to be somewhere else, and if so, where is it?” It terrifies me to think that I’m a “has-been,” or even worse, maybe I’m one of those who “never-was.” Maybe I was always invisible, never meant to be noticed or one to make an impact. Maybe I have no purpose. Perhaps I just merely exist. At least these days I feel like I just merely exist. I strive for purpose. I pray for purpose. Up until a few months ago I thought I had a purpose. But I never had a contingency plan in place – no Plan B in case that first sense of purpose didn’t pan out.

Not that I don’t try to pull myself up by my bootstraps. I’ve searched for other teams to play on. Sometimes other teams take an interest in me. They will invite me to go meet with them so they can check me out.  How do they size me up? I couldn’t speak for them, but they probably determine that I’m a great utility player. Problem is they need someone that hits home runs. It’s all about “skill sets” in today’s world (do they use the term “skill sets” in baseball?) By far the hardest question I have to answer when a new team considers me is when they ask, “Why did you leave your other team?” How eloquently can one say that the other team cut you, that you were no longer wanted, rejected, thrown out with the trash – that you were asked to leave? Once you get through the line of questioning, you wait and hope that the team will pick you up. But so far, no team has. I’ve been told that there are just so many highly qualified players out looking for teams right now. The quest to get on a team right now is quite competitive.

I guess I’m finding myself at my own personal crossroads in life. Having endured the pain and humiliation of being severed from the team that I thought I would spend the bulk of the rest of my playing days with, I wonder now – do I run away and hide? Perhaps now is the time to get out of the game. Or do I muster all the courage and determination within my being to get back into the game – even if it may mean starting my own team. Guess I’m weighing my options now.

But as I do, I wonder what my son Clay would do if he were in my situation? My son Clay, who at 9 years old took the disappointment of being cut from his Knothole team and transformed it into sheer determination to become a first-class junior varsity baseball player (and no doubt a mighty fine varsity player next year). This is a kid who, after a major setback, ignored the gentle suggestions of his protective mother to give up the game so long ago. One thing about Clay – as stubborn, bull-headed and smart-mouthed that he can be sometimes (that last one gets him in trouble on occasion), he is also intensely driven. And he exudes confidence. Once he puts his mind to something, he wills himself to do it. I envy his confidence.

My most recent experience has rocked me of my self-confidence, to the point where I’m terrified to get back onto the horse for fear that I will fall right back off again. I so need some of my son’s confidence.  As I think back on Clay’s experience, I wonder if maybe I can learn some lessons from my son. Here he took a crushing setback when he got cut and came back better than ever, playing the sport he loves.

That inspires me. How I wish I could say that I will come back from my crushing setback, stronger, sharper, wiser, and better than ever. Not only ready to get back into the game, but ready to get back into the game and win. Just not sure what “winning” is at this point, or how to define it.

Meanwhile, I just hold on, praying daily, wondering what I’m supposed to do with the rest of my life. Where is my next team? Do I have one? For now, I guess I’m a team of one. Or, make that a team of two. I’m inviting God on my team and I'm pretty sure He will come on board. My understanding is that all it takes to get God on your team is to ask. And word has it He’s a good utility player. Or for that matter, He’s awesome at pretty much any position. Wonder if He might be able to hit me a few home runs….

Sam

I remembered that morning in 1998, when the stick turned blue.

It was two days before Christmas, four weeks after me, my husband Ed and our two sons had attended my brother’s wedding over Thanksgiving weekend in Pennsylvania. Sometime during that weekend a "grand occasion" took place that resulted in me having to pee on a stick a month later.

I truly felt that our one indiscretion would have resulted in a near impossible chance of my getting pregnant. Yet as I checked the stick, it hit me that what I thought was impossible was most definitely possible. What initially was an informal precaution to check “just in case” because I knew it would be negative and then I wouldn’t have to worry about partying for the holidays, in an instant turned into a shocking realization that I was again “with child.”

As I sat in the bathroom staring at the blue stick, I’m pretty sure I didn’t breathe for a good five minutes. I broke the news to my husband later that day. Since I had a house full of relatives in from out of town for Christmas, I took him for a ride up the street to the park. It was there that I gave him the news. And then I started to cry. I guess I don’t always like surprises, especially upon suddenly finding out that a baby is on the way. My husband attempted to comfort me by offering up the possibility that this one might turn out to be the little girl that I had always wanted.

Nine months later, I delivered my third child – my third son who we named Samuel. Sam must have had some inkling in the womb about his mother’s ambivalence toward the pregnancy. Because as soon as he wiggled his way through the final stretch of the birth canal, he made sure that I knew who he was. To this day, I tell him that of the three, he was the baby that was most likely to drive me insane. From the very first week, he was as clingy as a sock and a slip joined together by static electricity.

Sam would never sleep in his crib – only in his mother’s arms. Many nights I would sit in the rocking chair next to the crib, holding him as he would sleep soundly, waiting for the perfect, discreet moment to gently place him in the crib. But it didn’t matter how long I would wait. As soon as I would put him down, a trigger would go off in his body – one that said, “she’s putting me in that dreaded crib now.” His body would go stiff, he would wake up and start to cry. Sometimes I would just let him cry. And cry. And cry. For hours. Until he wore me down, because he never did wear down. Needless to say, crib use during the next couple of years was negligible. He ended up sleeping with me and my husband. It was the only way we could get some sleep. His waking hours were challenging, also. To take more than three steps away from him was a travesty for him. I recall one trip to visit relatives in Michigan when he wasn’t quite a year old. I couldn’t even get away from him long enough to eat a meal without him screaming. He wanted to be held all the time, and not by anybody else – only me. I finally put him into preschool when he was two years old, just to try to cure him of his separation anxiety. The first six months when I would drop him off I would have to pull him off me and he would scream and cry as I left. But eventually, he started to get the hang of it and realize that Mom didn’t have to be there all the time.

So what does this all have to do with now? Sam is now 11 years old, and he has managed to become a little more independent since his crib days. But make no mistake, he’s still my baby boy. Maybe it was the clinginess of his early life that contributed to this. Whatever it is, I must concede that the boy knows me. He is attuned to my moods and thoughts. When I’m sad, no matter how well I hide it, he sees it. I am one who tends to internalize my stress, particularly my frustrations and my sadness. I am inclined to suffer in silence, and manage to do so without much detection from others in my family, including my husband and other two sons. But Sam is way too perceptive. One day last spring Sam asked his dad to take him out so that he could spend his own money to buy me flowers because I “looked sad” that day. And every day, several times a day, he comes up to me, kisses me and tells me he loves me.

Wow. Maybe I look really sad lately. Truth is, the last year has been challenging, wrought with a few personal and professional setbacks. So sometimes when I least expect it, I will find myself getting teary-eyed at the spur of the moment. I wonder if I have failed, and if my life has been a waste up to this point. I fight feelings of guilt, brought on by worries that I have not done justice to my sons as their mother. And in these fleeting moments of self-pity, tears start to well up in my eyes. I try to rub them before they roll down my cheeks, as I don’t want my family to see me that vulnerable. I want to present a strong front before my family. But Sam knows how I feel.

It happened just the other day. I was involved in a rather mundane task – preparing dinner. And then one of many depressing thoughts creeped into my psyche – one that left me drained of self-confidence and questioning my ability to take care of my family. I sniffed, then dabbed at my eyes, all the while trying to keep my feelings under the radar. Sam was at the kitchen table doing his homework and must have figured out what was going on. He got up from doing his homework and walked over to me. “I love you, Mom,” he said. And then he embraced me with one of his big old teddy bear hugs. For once I didn’t try to hide my feelings. I was sad and I stood there in the kitchen, locked in an embrace with my son for more than five minutes, crying softly and letting the tears flow. How very much I needed a shoulder to cry on at that moment, and to know that I was loved. Sam knew that.

I remembered the day that the stick turned blue, and my initial half-hearted enthusiasm about the third baby’s imminent arrival. I always joked that God must have planned for Sam to be here on this earth, because I certainly didn’t plan for him to be here. While there were a few times during that pregnancy that I may have questioned God’s plan, I think the full  revelation came that few days ago, as I was crying into my youngest son’s shoulder. “Thank you, God, for sending me Sam. I now know why it is that you sent him to me.”

Hot for Hot Yoga!

It’s always the Warrior II where I start to fizzle. 

Halfway through the standing series, heart going 100+ beats a minute, and here I am, drenched with sweat in a heated room. Yesterday it was really hot, more than usual. The instructor asked, “Does it feel hotter in here today than usual?” I politely nod but think to myself, “Omigod yes.” I glance at the wall thermometer and it reads 109⁰ Fahrenheit. No wonder I’m dizzy. Of course, it’s not just the heat. By this time, I’ve been through what seems a hundred downward facing dogs and their associated flows, runner’s lunges, eagle poses and the like. (If you’re into yoga, you’ll know what these are. If not, never mind.)



The Warrior II pose appears easy enough. Just stand with your feet apart, one facing straight ahead, the other at a 45 degree angle.  The leg with the foot facing straight should be bent, and the arms should be held up, parallel to the floor. It’s the arms that get me. By that point in the workout, I could very well be holding up 100 pound weights with each of those arms, they feel so heavy. Yesterday was no exception. Fortunately, once the warrior series is over, I seem to start to get my second wind. By this time I’m dripping perspiration, donning sweat beads from my forehead to my ankles. I make sure not to wipe the sweat from my body, as I’m told it is a natural insulator that actually helps to keep the body from overheating. However, the pesky perspiration does manage to make it into my eyes sometimes, so I have to wipe that out.

So why do I put myself through this? Believe it or not, for peace, health and harmony.  It all started last summer, when after finally getting over a two-month bout of bronchitis, I registered for a summer class in my graduate school program. For various reasons I had been unable to take a class during the previous spring semester, so I was looking forward to spending the summer taking my online class, as it was in a subject that interested me: health communication. Just a few days before the class started, I was stunned to learn that it was not the three-month course that had been listed on the university website, but rather an accelerated, three-week intercession class. So I was about to begin a course where I would have to pack three months’ worth of work into three weeks!

I crammed a lot of information about health communication into my head over the next three weeks. Fortunately, I came out of it alive. A lot of the information seemed to go into one side of my head and out the other, as the class entailed absorbing so much information in so little time. But one thing about the class did resonate with me.  Initial readings in the class analyzed the various perspectives on health and what is considered “healthy.”  Generally, the western world considers healthy to be “not sick.” Yet eastern philosophy views health much more holistically. Maintaining health is not merely about fixing body parts that are “broken.” Rather, true health must take into account many different factors affecting the body and the human psyche. Physical, yes, but also mental, social and spiritual peace of mind.

This more holistic view of health made sense to me. And last May, as I was running myself ragged, trying to spend every spare moment on this fast-track class, be a mom and a wife, and also meet deadlines and prepare for the big annual meeting at work, I realized that maybe I wasn’t where I needed to be. If nothing else, I realized that while I might not have been sick at that very moment, I certainly did not consider myself to be healthy. I promised myself that once I was past the chaos of the summer class, I would do something, anything, toward becoming healthier.

I chose yoga because I sought more than just physical benefits. I was seeking something that could help me decrease my stress, calm my spirit, nourish my soul – something that could enhance my efforts to focus and concentrate. A quick search on the computer netted a host of yoga options, but it was the “hot yoga” option that intrigued me. Why, what is that?

Basically, hot yoga (specifically, the particular hot yoga I practice, Moksha Yoga) is power yoga practiced in a 95-105 degree room.  The heat of the room helps to loosen up the joints. And, of course, you sweat. I found a Moksha Yoga studio near my house and, as I had promised myself, I went to my first session the first week in June 2010. Sessions last anywhere from 60-90 minutes. I believe my first session was 75 minutes. The first time I opened the door to the heated room proved to be enough of a shock to the system, as if a sauna had hit me in the face. Admittedly, during that first session, many times I silently screaming to myself, “I’m dying! I’m dying!” Not to mention I was a first-timer in the room with some experienced yogis who had the ability to manipulate their bodies in some pretty serious ways!

I came out of that very first session completely bedraggled. Yet, I felt great! While the poses are physically intensive, they also require focus and concentration. Breathing, above all, is the most important part of the process. So as I came out that first time, feeling that I had just had my butt kicked, I also felt somewhat cleansed. I felt cleansed in a physical sense, as all that sweat had helped to remove toxins from my body (plus I was also drinking lots of water in the process). But I also felt cleansed from within – emotionally and spiritually – as the practice enabled one to release the stress and bring focus back into life. And then there’s the breathing.  One instructor would always say that when your mind gets cluttered and you’re feeling totally overwhelmed, or when a sense of exasperation invades, “Always come back to the breath.”  It is amazing how the answer for achieving calm can be found in the simple act of breathing. Being a nervous person of sorts, I’ve started to incorporate “simple acts of breathing” into my life more often and can indeed feel the impact.

As for me, I’ve kept up with my hot yoga. It seems I can only go so long without a fix. Sometimes I attend frequently, other times more sporadically. How often I go depends on what else I’m doing, how I’m feeling (tend to not go when I’m feeling the winter blues, which is actually the time I need to go most), and whether I can afford it at the time. Nevertheless, after all these months, I’m still very much “hot for yoga,” or “hot for hot yoga,” and anticipate I’ll be practicing it for some time.

Now, if I can just get beyond that Warrior II. . . .

Slightly Interesting Things About Me

The directive seemed simple enough – disclose three things about yourself: something simple, something serious and something funny. That was the initial discussion board request by the professor teaching the online persuasion class I took as part of my graduate program a couple of summers ago. It was just a way of “breaking the ice,” per se, a way of helping all of us faceless students get to know each other in our virtual classroom.

“Okay,” I thought to myself. “That’s an easy enough first assignment.” But it ended up being more a more complicated feat than what I had anticipated. The “simple” part was a breeze – I just explained where I worked, that I was married and had three kids.

And the “serious” didn’t take long to figure out. I mentioned the too-long struggle that my husband and I were going through at the time to support my developmentally disabled brother-in-law – specifically, our frustrating experiences maneuvering through the often vicious process to convince the government that my brother-in-law was entitled to disability benefits.  (It took two-and-a-half years. Good thing we took him in. I can only imagine how many people die in poverty waiting for the system to work for them.)

So with the simple and the serious covered, I only had to add the “funny” component to complete the puzzle. Hmmm. Funny? I was stumped. I’m guessing it didn’t have to be circus-clown type funny, but it at least had to be humorously intriguing. Come to find out I couldn’t think of one thing funny or even slightly interesting that I could share about myself. Wow. Had my life become that boring?

I have to say, it was quite the revelation. Had I just been so caught up in the rat race of life that I no longer had time to be an interesting person? Perhaps I always take myself too seriously and just need to chill out a little. Maybe it’s just hard for one to judge oneself in such a way. Maybe there are funny, or at least interesting, things about me that others see but that I do not see.

I must have pondered the “funny” issue for at least an hour before I thought of something that was even remotely acceptable to post. What is the fun fact that I posted? That I collect Oktoberfest Zinzinnati steins. I have almost every one since attending my first Oktoberfest in 1988. For those who wonder what’s the big deal, Cincinnati’s Oktoberfest is North America’s largest Oktoberfest. When my husband and I started dating in 1990, one of our very first dates was attending the Oktoberfest. Thus, it’s sort of become “our” event and a must-attend every year. With the exception of three or four years since 1988 (two of them when I was pregnant), we have attended every year. And every year, the first thing I do when I get there is purchase my prized stein. One year I almost didn’t get one. All of the booths were sold out except for the very last one we tried – the booth at the very outer edge of the festival. Now I always make a point to get there early to be sure I get my mug. Amazingly, one would think with three kids a few would have ended up broken by now. But only one has suffered that fate (one of my favorite ones, drat it), and it was just the handle that broke, so I can still display it. Don’t know whether those steins of mine will ever have any real monetary value, but they are a prized possession to me – perhaps because the event is so special to me.

But I digress. This isn’t really about Oktoberfest steins. It’s about my own reflections on just how interesting a person I am. I think we all imagine ourselves as much more interesting than maybe we really are. However, after my own little adventure racking my brains trying to think of something intriguing about myself, I realize that perhaps it’s something I should ponder more. Maybe it entails a process of self discovery. Perhaps a conscious effort to discover the fun in life, and thus the fun in me, is necessary. Or maybe I could just ask somebody – how am I fun, or funny, or interesting?

I think it would be an interesting exercise to just start to sporadically list “interesting” thinks about me as they come to mind. After all, life doesn’t always have to be so serious, does it? If only we could all just lighten up a bit.

Okay, Oktoberfest steins aside, I’ll offer another interesting thing about me: if you want me to do something, tell me I may never have the chance to do it again. That’s the thinking that led me to plunge 30 feet into a Vermont quarry last summer. On our vacation, we were told about a local swimming hole in a nearby quarry. My oldest son had already been there. It was an unseasonably hot day for northern Vermont – in the 90s. So we journeyed to the quarry. When we got there I was shocked to find out what exactly one had to do to enjoy the cool water contained within the quarry – JUMP! When I checked out the 30-foot drop, my eyes immediately widened as I murmured to myself, “That’s really far down.” Water doesn’t scare me (I’m like a fish in water), but heights do. What to do? In the end, I figured what other time in my life would I be able to say I jumped off a cliff and lived to tell about it? So I braced myself and jumped. The freefall only took a few seconds, but I felt as if I was going in slow motion the whole time. Nevertheless, it was awesome!

Okay, two interesting things about me I’ve listed. Not vanity, just an exercise in building positive attitude and self esteem. Interesting. Kind of fun. More stuff to follow as it comes to mind!